


a tremendous thing

by repurposed



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-21 06:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11352051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/repurposed/pseuds/repurposed
Summary: “Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. 'I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.”― E.B. White, Charlotte's Web





	a tremendous thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission from my friend Zack, whose blog for Vailintin can be found at edelweissmage.tumblr.com! The request was for a 2,000-word fic in which Erik and Vailintin bond while avoiding the crowd at a ball. 
> 
> My blog for Erik can be found at ordinarymcn.tumblr.com, and my commission information can be found on my personal blog, revivalish.tumblr.com.

Of all the many and entirely valid faults Erik spends copious amounts of time demonizing himself for, the one he never touches on, or in fact even acknowledges in passing, is how very little he ever _eats_.

The last time he can recall eating a considerable amount of food in one sitting was a _terribly long_ time ago, and occurred completely under duress - the Daroga, having carried his (even then, and even at his considerable stature) feather-light corpse of a body out of the unfinished tunnel he had quite accidentally fallen asleep in, was in no fitting mood to tolerate Erik's vague waving-off of the incident as a simple case of afternoon tiredness (it had been five o'clock in the morning, which could _technically_ be construed as coming after noon, in Erik's defense), and had taken advantage of his nauseously exhausted state to manually feed him the entirety of a bowl of rice with plums.

Erik had been deeply and sincerely grateful for such attentive care, and had, also, naturally, sworn a solemn and vengeful oath never to forgive him.

He's remembering this now as he perches at the top of the high and intricate staircase he's put _so much effort_ into designing - it had become necessary for him to renovate it recently, with the specific goal in mind of being able to see _everyone_ in the ballroom with perfect clarity from a single vantage point. The reason for this very rare overhaul of his original design, and also, conincedentally, the reason he'd begrudgingly consented to being semi-exposed in the crowd _at all,_ was -

" _Erik!_ " Calls a familiarly cheerful voice that would have been lost among the revelers if not for Erik's finely tuned ear - as his companion of recent months makes their determined way through the crush of people, he habitually reaches up to touch the outer edge of his mask. It's one he'd created specifically for scenarios such as these, with the sole purpose of concealing himself when it became necessary to move about in a public area, but he can't seem to shake off the deeply ingrained worry that something might _slip_ , that the smallest flaw in his painstakingly constructed costume will cause an irreparable _scene_.

What's bringing the long-ago incident with the Daroga to the forefront of Erik's mind is this: Vailintin, his friend - he supposes he's within rights to use that word, at least loosely, if only because he knows they'd insist (although it's a foreign word in his mind, and very nearly _uncomfortable_ even to think of) - is balancing two plates of food as they draw closer to Erik's strategic place on the stairs.

Erik, taking note of the construction of their gown and the difficulty of carrying the food as they walk up the steps, swings himself over the railing and down into a blessedly unpopulated alcove, containing nothing but a table - it's also, incidentally, his exit point when he deems it no longer necessary to examine the goings-on at the Opera Populaire's social gatherings, with a curtain gracefully concealing the entrance to one of many, _many_ private rooms (glorified, comfortable tunnels, if he's _entirely_ honest). However, rather than vanishing to its safety as he would have under other circumstances, he walks to meet Vailintin somewhat less than halfway, accepting one of the offered plates with a brief nod of his head and a dubious _look_ that manages to make itself known through layers of plaster and cloth.

" _Pari_ ," he acknowledges them shortly - he hadn't intended to give them such an affectionate nickname at the start, but something about them brings to mind the years Erik had spent with the Daroga and his wife, specifically with their young child, who, regardless of how much older and more mature they'd gotten, had been called home by their father as " _Pari, it's time to eat! Pari, come say hello to your cousin Erik!_ " Erik had raised what _would_ , on another man's face, have been an eyebrow at the Daroga's claim of kinship with him, but who was he to refuse it? He'd reasoned that this was very likely the one and only time he'd hear himself _willingly_ called family, or anything remotely similar to it - and until very _recently_ , he'd been correct in his assumption.

Hoping Vailintin won't pry too much into his neglect of the food (a vain hope, he's all too certain by now), Erik sets the plate down _warily_ , with the air of a man handling something that may or may not explode in his face if he isn't cautious - although, truth be told, he employs far less restraint in his handling of _real_ explosives, which he does far too often for his friend's liking. 

"Are you not with anyone of import, then?" He very nearly grimaces at the shortness of his own tone - it's not a thing that's ever necessitated paying the slightest bit of attention to in the past, as writing the occasional, cryptic and ominously _vague_ reminder of his overdue salary for Monsieur Lefèvre wasn't a task which required any mastery of conversational skill, let alone knowing how to speak to somebody he very distinctly wished _not_ to offend or injure with his words.  

Thankfully for Erik's already frayed nerves, Vailintin doesn't seem too overly bothered by the lack of friendly warmth in his greeting (he's thought many times that they more than produce enough warmth and kindness for both Erik and themself, which is lucky, as Erik has a difficult time picturing himself morphing into someone any easier to converse with, even with their assistance).

"No, someone _did_ ask me to dance earlier, but - well," they hesitate momentarily, and then hastily finish the sentence as they pick up on how Erik's scanning the crowd, as if already planning some sort of recompense for however they'd been insulted - "nothing bad happened, really, Erik! We just - didn't get along very well, is all. I didn't want to seem _rude_ , but he just wasn't... the most interesting person to talk to." Erik snorts a little at that, quickly tempering his laughter because of the terrible sound it makes, given his nose, or _lack_ of same, and the particular acoustics of this mask, which made it nearly impossible to tell he was lacking a facial feature, but also produced an uncomfortably distinct, echoing _rattle_ when Erik made slightly too much noise inside its confines. 

"If nothing else, he could have spent the evening and more in praise of how you are _dressed_ , my friend," Erik says, feeling ever so slightly exposed for a reason he has difficulty placing, and wishing to turn the subject of the conversation entirely towards Vailintin, in order to avoid any topics he might find _sensitive_ (and to distract them from the _food_ , which he's still keeping a polite - although _barely_ so - distance from, and casting the occasional glance at, as if in the hopes that it might have taken up the cutlery like legs and scuttled away). 

Although Erik will be the first to admit to attempting to use flattery towards his own ends (even if those ends are, presently, merely the desire to escape through the curtain that's a tantalizing _very few_ inches behind him), he will also admit to being _right_ in this particular case. In sharp contrast to Erik's funerary attire (he very rarely appeared as anything other than a well-off gentleman or a veritable harbinger of death; in this case, he had opted for the latter, out of sheer distaste for the event taking place), they're draped in layers of softly gathered pale blue lace, glimmering with every movement as the light catches on the silver detailing that curls about their hips and torso. The sheer fabric drawn across one delicate shoulder folds and hangs beautifully as they move to tuck their hair behind their ear, made nearly _shy_ by the compliment, only to realize it's done up in such a way that it can't very well be moved without ruining the effect. 

Something very similar to _pride_ breaks open in Erik's chest at the sight of them, and he feels, as always, not entirely worthy to be called their _friend_ \- but overpowering the ever-present sense of insufficiency is an unfamiliar, but frequent as of late, feeling of overwhelming relief that they're so _happy_. He wouldn't know how to put words to it, but it's something close to the way he'd often fruitlessly daydreamed that his poor, unhappy mother might have felt towards him, perhaps in another life.

"Thank you very much, Erik," they begin, and he knows immediately from their tone that he hasn't gotten away with his attempt at misdirection - "and you look..." they visibly consider their phrasing for a long moment - "very _formal!_ In a good way!" Erik makes an affirmative sound, although he's well aware he looks nothing of the sort. 

"Have you eaten anything since the ball started?" _And there it is_. His fate sealed, Erik looks again at the plate he'd set on the table and attempted to forget about. He hasn't eaten, of course - he very rarely has anything that could be termed an appetite, hunger always being overshadowed by assorted physical aches and pains, and staved off by the mild nausea that's become familiar background noise to him. 

"I have not had the pleasure, no," he says, voice taut and disagreeable. On the plate are assorted fruits, some with chocolate and various syrups accompanying them, a leg of some type of fowl (the smell of which, although savory and objectively wonderful, makes Erik's stomach turn), and a slice of a yellow cake that, if nothing else, doesn't _look_ to be too overly sweet. 

He looks at Vailintin. Vailintin looks at him, their expression unflinchingly pleasant and warmly concerned. 

"What, may I ask, has appealed to _you_ so far?" It's only delaying the inevitable, but he still goes out on an already precariously dangling limb and _tries_. Vailintin looks thoughtful, rocking back on their heels as they search through their memory. 

"Well, the cake I brought you is _very_ good! It's lemon, so... I hoped it wouldn't be _too_ sweet for you? And, well, I don't know what you like as far as fruit, so I just... took a few different things." They take the plate from the table and hold it up to illustrate their point, making it very difficult for Erik to politely, or even _impolitely_ look away. There are strawberries on it, and slices of orange and pineapple (Erik shudders to think of the expense Monsieur Lefèvre must have gone to), and more to his tastes than anything else in the selection, a handful of pitted dates.

He reaches out and takes one carefully, balancing it between gloved fingers in an attempt to avoid getting too much of the stickiness on his hands. "Thank you," he says quietly, sounding ever so slightly less irritated than before.

(Erik is seventeen, and he is in Mandenzeran. He has only received one assignment as the Shah's personal assassin - the rest of his time is spent studying, learning Arabic and many other languages, and becoming well-versed in a new interpretation of God, which only seems to make any real sense when he goes to stay with the Daroga in the evenings, and sees the little child he knows only as Pari running about and wheedling their mother for a story, staring wide-eyed and fascinated at every different mask that 'Cousin Erik' comes into their home with. This is a child who will _never_ wear a mask. This is a child who will never know shame or fear, Erik thinks - not the way he has - and he doesn't know how to explain how that makes him feel.

The Daroga does not press him to speak more than he wants to, simply gestures for him to sit. A bowl of soft golden-brown dates is pushed forward by little Pari, who likes them _very much_ and wants to know what Cousin Erik thinks. Erik takes one out of politeness, and finds that they are one of the best things he's eaten in his life.)

" _Bismillah_ ", he murmurs, quite unconsciously.

He eats the first one slowly, mindful of Vailintin's eyes on him as he does so, and thanks them again for the trouble they've gone to in bringing him food. There's a question in the look on their face, and Erik doesn't know how to answer it except to say, "A dear friend introduced me to dates. I am as fond of them as I can be of any food." It feels like he's said much more, and he finishes the pile of dates before the night is over, along with the cake Vailintin had so highly recommended, and the next morning, he imposes upon Madame Giry to help him contact the nearest trader who can provide the Opera Populaire with dates.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Bismillah" is a short version of a traditional Muslim prayer before eating a meal.


End file.
